Lioness

I am lounging in the soft warm sand with my friends all around and the brilliant warm sun above.  As I lay on my belly I begin slowly, all so slowly to roll onto my back, allowing my full belly to be warmed by the stunning sunlight.  Stretching out lazily I know all is secure, we are, for now, safe.  My peers and I keep our noses keen to any scents as they float along the gentle breezes past us.  I gaze up at the deep blue brilliant sky.  The blueness reflects into my large dark eyes, my long black eyelashes protecting my orbs from the dust that is captured by the sunlit rays.

As I awkwardly flop back onto my belly with a bit of a thud, I continue to stretch and laze deeper.  One of my nearby companions lays her head gently across my hips, the occasional flutter of the tips of our tails keeping a subtle rhythm for us all.  A collective swoosh and twitch.

I reach out my front arm and allow my deep claws to emerge, gently pawing at the earth.  I love my paws, they are probably the thing I love most about my majestic body.  Twisting at my wrist I inspect the deep black pads.  They are surprisingly soft, not calloused, even though they have carried me through so many miles, across such hard landscapes, essential in so many kills.  As I examine them closer I find even softer, pink spots between my fur.  They are in a familiar pattern, a reflection of the constellations I see in the deep night sky.

One of my pride members slowly pads up to me and ever so gently licks my mouth.  A tender act of care.  A delicate kiss of sorts, the roughness of her tongue skimming along my jowly lips, removing the stuck bits of sand that I’ve been laying in.

My fluffy ears are always alert, even as I lay my head upon the ground.  One ear listens down deeply into the pulse of the earth, drawing from it the beat of the universe, while my other ear reaches into the vastness of the sky, careening for the blessings of the infinite space.  Balancing each other out, deep, dense, light airy.  I open my mouth and release a long wide yawn, stretching to the back of my tongue, the exhale warm and soft.  Closing my eyes.  I am at rest. 

Cosmos

The wind is picking up and the leaves scatter and shower down upon me and my large hairy walking partner as we plod through the parks and streets of our tiny town. There is so much change afoot at this time a year. Each day a new color, a new landscape. I feel blessed when a leaf chooses the exact moment, for my pure selfish bliss, to be the moment in time that it lets go. It releases its grasp upon the life giving tree branches, literally and ever so gracefully, falling and twirling, spinning and serenading, to their deaths.

I keep the ones that fall from above and stick to my sweater. I bring them home with us, I twirl their stems in delight beneath my thumb and forefinger as we walk the tree lined streets. Their cool subtle texture, gleaming with golden color. I love placing them against my cheek, their soft coolness against my skin. By the time I arrive home from my walk they are just a dark and shriveled mess of a thing. I have eventually along my travels, stuffed them deep into my pink tote bag, somewhere under the bagels and addicting almond croissant that I purchased from the local bakery. The leaves beauty in that phase of its existence before its death is so quick. The walk home. No time at all in the scheme of things.

No time at all.

I revel in my small blossoming wildflower garden that came from sprinkling a handful of seeds and saying a little prayer over them this past the spring. It’s is now truly a bright spot on our block. The cosmos, like our sunflowers were just a month ago, are stretching for the clear deep blue sky.

We’ve had some juices straight from our new juicing garden we created. The garden is flourishing in the three hand made, perfect height, amazing soil filled, dream come true, free standing planter boxes in our front “yard”. All filled with brocolli, kale, spinach, chard, beets and brussle sprouts. The deep deep green vibrant and energetic as I glance out our kitchen window each morning.

We’ve done so much on our little blank spot of land, but what I’ve done mostly is weed it. We have sheet mulched the entire 9000 sf. We have planted four fruit trees and a flame red maple, Alfred 2.0. It’s a flat and open and searing lot. Even with all of the above (or maybe be cause of it?) we had our hands full with weeding! Retaming, domesticizing this parcel of wild, abandoned, and uncared for land.

First to pop up in the yard was the “vine weed” that joyfully sprang to life from its ghostly roots under the four inch thick mulch and cardboard this spring and early summer . They are small with tendrils so it’s a bare handed job. “Hello! I’m here! “ They seem so optimistic. Yet I unceremoniously yank them out. As deep as I can get them then bag ‘em, more and more pop up. They are truly never ending.

I do believe I’ve pulled up my body weight in weeds this summer. Wheelbarrow fulls. The occasional chunk of grass, the tenacious sucker “junk” trees trying to fight hard for their way back into the old junkyard this once was. But the grass and sucker trees are easy peasy. They seem to get the message of their unwantedness eventually.

The bitch of them all is the goathead. Known to puncture car tires, bike tires, and pups paws . It seemed to put out its best showing at the end of September. Just as I was thinking my lower back and I were getting the upper hand on the cheery vine weed and others in the yard, I’d see the dreaded goatheads. Getting them before their characteristic yellow blossom blooms. Wiggling the wood chips away from the goatheads crown, gripping gently at the lowest point on that stem as I can and “plink” it comes out. Root and all. One of the most sartisfying feelings. I listened to many a true crime podcasts multiple episodes in my ear buds, moving like a crab along the ground of wood chips I call longingly my “yard”, pulling out these suckers.

Today I found some more patches just after I declared out loud for the entire neighborhood to hear “I think I’m ahead of them. I think I’m done with them” and then of course when I adjust my eyes to “goat weed” vision” I find more. The locals here know. It’s a war not a one season battle.

No time at all.

The Porch

I climb the six wide wooden front steps as I had so many unconscious times before.  Toddler on left hip, grocery bag on right hip, the two other small children running ahead and bursting through the front door of our house.  

As I was wrestling to keep the family dog inside my oldest son asks ”Mom why are there two men in our house?”  Putting down my two hefty bundles, I cross the threshold. There were in fact two men in my living room.

One of the men I actually recognized.  An old friend of a friend, a renowned real estate investor.  They were here to buy my house.  The house my husband had, just that morning, listed for sale without my knowledge.  Apparently we are getting a divorce.

The brown paper grocery bag teetered on the front porch as the similarly colored dog clamored past it. I notice the white steps need painting.  

I unkindly tell the men to leave.  They stumble out of the house awkwardly, over the children, not looking at me embarrassed by their unknowing invasion, around the grocery bag and past the inquisitory old mutt.  

I slump down onto the paint chipped steps.  It was mid summer, my favorite season, hot sun blazing through our leafed out trees.  The dappling of the sunlight dancing in their own rhythm.  My wet bathing suit under my sundress leaves a mark as I sit still on the steps.

This house, in its arts and crafts style of angels and wood  with a covered front porch that wraps around it as if in a hug, is also a home.  I had recently painted the porch ceiling a robin eggs blue.  The old wooden porch swing gently swayed on its rusted chains.  The uneven wooden floor planks of the porch lay out like ripples on a pond.  I slid from slumped to horizontal staring up at the blue ceiling, feeling the unevenness of the floor boards beneath my back.  

I catch from the corner of my eye the white melted goo oozing from the bottom of the miraculously still standing grocery bag, blending into the white of the chipped painted steps.

I am relieved and surrender.  I finally let go.

All Is Well: A Soul Poem for Ryn

What I long for,

beneath everything else,

is to make a difference—

to be seen not just as someone surviving,

but as someone inspiring.

I feel most myself

when I’m dancing with my eyes closed,

when my body prays without words,

when yoga returns me

to my breath,

to the temple within.

I ache for comfort.

For love that doesn’t leave.

For ease like warm water,

steady and healing.

I long to be

lovingly healed forever—

to stop hiding,

to stop doubting,

to stop second-guessing

the light I carry.

I want to accept myself fully,

to feel rooted—

a strong and gentle tree,

not pulled by every wind.

My soul whispers:

“All is well.”

“You are never alone.”

“You are light to all you encounter.”

“You are amazing.”

And I believe her.

I see children and mothering.

I feel peace in my palms,

a guiding force,

a calming flame.

I will not be so easily

distraught,

distracted,

distressed.

I don’t need to be.

Because I remember now:

All is well.

I am here to bring light.

And I am never alone.

Our Bench

As we stroll alongside the glistening lake, I notice a few benches adorned with plaques or inscriptions, honoring the beloved individuals whose loved ones have dedicated these spots to them. The benches are mostly new and well cared for. Some made from the local pink flagstone and some of beautiful wood. A heartfelt representation of their persons favorite view immortalized on their behalf.

The dogs, constantly urging us along our path, we come across a rather unassuming sight: a weathered wooden bench nestled amidst the serene shores of the lake. I may have missed it if I hadn’t stopped to tie my boot laces. Despite its somewhat neglected appearance, with warped boards and peeling paint, the bench exudes a sturdy and sound presence. It bears no inscription, dedication, or claimant, suggesting that it has stood witness to countless memories and moments of solace over the years.

I yell ahead to my husband of many lifetimes “I claim this bench as our own!.”

This worn bench has been around for quite some time, just like us. It’s witnessed some breathtaking beauty and has likely provided a much-needed break and respite to someone who was feeling weary, a place to rest for those who felt they couldn’t go on. Despite enduring the relentless pounding of the sun for days on end and the powerful winds from the west for countless nights, it stands tall and sturdy, bearing the scars of its experiences.

Yet here it is, an old and weathered bench, still standing strong, like us.

Wrinkles

In an attempt to boost my social media presence and gain more readers for my writing, I found myself in a peculiar situation. A friend, a social media expert, suggested that I post more pictures of myself alongside my writings. While this idea seemed like a good way to connect with my audience, it also led to an unexpected realization: I was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with my appearance.

It was as if I had never truly seen my face befor! Yet now in the frozen snapshots captured on social media, it was hard to accept that is me now. The deep wrinkles around my mouth, the “smokers” lines and the heavy wrinkles that are amplified when I laughed or smiled, all became starkly visible. I was stunned, wondering if this was truly how I looked. It was as if my daily mirror glances had become a distant memory, replaced by a distorted reflection in the digital realm.

Acknowledging the reality of aging and the natural transitions that come with it, I tried to reassure myself. Ointments, fillers, and Botox were all options I considered. I diligently applied my retinol and wore sunscreen daily, recognizing the impact of my past neglect of these skincare routines, coupled with the years spent in the sun and the arid climate of my home for over four decades, reflecting back to me in my face.

Despite these efforts, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something more was needed. I wondered if I needed a little intervention to enhance my appearance. But then, I paused to consider the deeper meaning of this quest. This was who I was now, at the age of 60, why was I so focused on gaining external validation?

As I grappled with these questions, I realized that I could choose to disconnect from social media, return to my ignorance, and shove my head (literally) back in the sand. Alternatively, I could delve deeper into the options available, consult with my dermatologist, and explore the various treatments that might help me achieve a more satisfactory appearance.

I am trying to come to terms with who I am and to love myself and my appearance. I’m trying to embrace my life well-lived skin and find inspiration in other women. Those who smile with glee without a care for wrinkles on their screens are my source of strength. I truly do see them as beautiful - so why not me?

I’ll continue using retinol, sunscreen, and hats, and I may consult my dermatologist for additional suggestions. However, when I see those lines and crevices in my photos, I’ll do my best to embrace them and become one of those women who smile gleefully. Hoping to help another woman who is catching her first glimpse of her “current” self.

We are not defined by our wrinkles. Our appearances do not limit us. Express yourself through your clothing style, color your hair, or let it grow long and gray. Whatever it is for you, be true to yourself.

After this self acceptance pep talk I raise my finger and gently trace the indentations near my mouth. I can feel their depths. I can feel their widsom and their experiences. I softly carress them with love.

Slipping Away From Myself

I sit here staring out the floor to ceiling windows. Light snow/ drizzle outside. The earth getting a much needed dampening. 

I feel myself slipping outside of myself. A trance. I told someone recently I’m on auto pilot. I don’t feel alive. Is this depression?  Is this disassociation?  I’m sure there are  100+ more diagnosis and words for what I’m experiencing.  

I wake up and meditate for approx 20 min. I get up go in a 1.5 mile hilly walk with my husband and the dogs. I set my own work schedule and do mostly what I want when I want. And yet it feels like my life isn’t truly my own. 

I’m just biding time.  It’s ticking growing louder and louder every day. 

The little things

Finn waiting for me and greeting me so lovingly. So happy to see me, tail wagging, ears flopping, leash dragging.

The 15 minutes of brilliant sunshine reprieve on a cloudy grey day. 

My love tucking a blanket around me like I am a child that needs comforting.

Witness

Witness 

To the man in tux and beautiful woman with your amazing afro hair and fully dressed to kill. Standing on the side of the road in the drizzling dusk, fender hanging off their car, dialing on their cell phones. They are going to be late. 

And to the couple in parking lot - as we got our dogs ready for a hike we overheard them from the car parked next to us. “I don’t want to be married to you anymore”.  Spoken loudly and firmly.  

I’m so sorry

The Wrap

My first time here. I was 20 years old. Now 40 years later I am sitting in the same exact room. Back then I was camping in the parking lot not even recalling who brought me here. Now I am in a luxury room with a small kitchenette. The room I’m in stirs my 40 year old memories. Really just the windows in this room are all that remains from back the. 6 leather lounge chairs, a table, and a few ottomans with a sauna and steam room now sit boldly in the corner

However, all those decades ago, this rooms had an entirely different experience.

My younger blonder self stepped into the darkened long room. The wooden tables lined up side by side with nearly space to squeeze between them. I lay, as instructed upon the scratchy warm woolen blankets with a towel as a buffer. The Native American men coming to each table one by one. We are all laid out like offerings, and they begin to wrap.

Tightly and securely wrapping each one of us in the warmed blankets Like body burritos on the flat planks. Tightly. Then somehow tighter still. My arms pinned by my side a wave of claustrophobia rolls through me. I can’t move. Then my internal voice states the obvious “yes that is the point” then somehow he tugs and pulls and tucks stronger and even tighter still. The deeply set windows above my head, 2-3’ recessed into the thick stone walls, my only mode of escape. Knowing it is there somehow soothes me and calms any panic that arises. A warm towel is laid across my eyes. I am fully immersed now

The sweat begins. My pores open. Sweat forms across my temples Softening - releasing. I can feel poisons leaving my body. My breath slows my hearts tempers its beat.

Hours pass (maybe 20 minutes?) and suddenly and angel of sorts appears with water in a thin paper cup with a straw. She places the straw to my lips as she gently lifts my head. Like a nurse with a feeble patient. I swallow the cold water with so much appreciation Feeling it slide down my throat and my cells absorbing it.

I think I fell asleep. I hear others in the room (about 20 of us) some softly snoring The room is brimming with us human burritos.

After many many hours (maybe 60 minutes?) the same strong dark hands firmly begin to release the tucks. Sternly pulling the blankets away. The woolen hug loosing. I am fully released from its grip. I’m instructed to move slowly to take my time. Allow a moment. As I swing my leaden feet to the cool stone floor the wooden table creaks. I glance at the door and see a figure sitting on a short three legged battered stool. The gate keeper. The space holder. Perhaps the angel of water?

I feel a sense of peace that they are there for us. This pod of beings lined up on tables are being tended to. Watched over. My feet find my flip flops and I retreat slowly from the blackness as I reach for the door intently whisper to the figure on the stool “what was that?” A husky whisper replies. “It is your welcome to ojo cliente “’

The View: Sept 3

The View:  Tues Sept 3rd

Hot, rough, pink stone

Warmth beneath my left foot,

 as the right

Dangles wildly above it.

Left; flat souled, drawing down deeper into 

Sun warmed flagstone, soaking up the day

Right: flitters about in an

Invisible, unheard, rhythm 

tapping through it

Casting shadow puppets chaotically across the patio

The waning sunlight their director.

Look Up

The green flowing contours of my view

A slow motioned flux of

Peaks, valleys and clouds

Still sunlit 

depths slowly growing cooler on my exposed warm skin

The rich forest green, spotlit and glowing 

Now a deep emerald, the color of a stormy Irish Sea

The suns casting its magic upon us 

As a painter with a brush

The valleys’ corners are gleaning now

Red adirondack chairs , 

the perch, the vantage, the place of witness, 

sacred spaces

Casting my shoulders back

by design

Ever so easily affording the cross of the knees

Right foot over left

Air over ground

Flight over anchor

Time for a sweatshirt.

Peony

This morning I tossed the last bloom in the trash.  It was a soft cream color, the petals limp and lifeless, its stem struggling to suck up the water it was immersed in.  Before I released it into the dirt filled waste bin I took one last sniff.  I snuggled my nose deep into the faded bloom and inhaled.  It was still there that undeniable scent of peony.  The softness of the petals now crisp, yet the scent still lingered, barely.  I tried to hold on to that scent as it will be another full year until I am able to harvest the peony blooms from my small mountain yard again. 

I began cutting the blooms from my peonies about a month ago.  Typically May and June are peony season.  For us living at over 7800 feet in altitude, it is usually June. I have been known to place umbrellas over my buds during the freakish snowstorms of late May here in the high country.  Tenderly caring for them and genuinely excited to see the sliver of openings in their tight bud ball reveal the beginnings of the bloom.

During the bloom season I carefully select the ones that are in their full glory, bursting with beauty, their petals smooth and soft and full, their stems barely able to keep them upright.  I carefully trim the clipped blooms and place them in glass jars around the house.  I love walking by the crystal hutch in our dining room, on my way to retrieve our vacuum and suddenly my nose is tickled.  The sweetness entering my nose, my brain quickly trying to place it.  Momentarily “what is that smell”? Passes through my thoughts, then just as quickly it is identified and I remember the jar of peony blooms I set out a few days ago on top of that hutch.  Or when I am in bed reading it catches me a bit off guard, unexpecting, trickling into my nostrils and then the question of identification, quickly followed by the recognition of the smell, and at once feeling refreshed and feeling my shoulders soften just from the scent.

They say that scent transports you to emotional memories.  

We had rented a house on the island of Nantucket. Nantucket was the home I never knew I missed. Our four rowdy kids running around the large house, the beach, the town.  Exploring the many streets on our bikes, cruising the flat winding coastal roads.  At the local farmers market I bought the largest bunch of peonies I could hold.  Securing them into my bike basket, I cared for them on the transport to the house.  I would ease my bike slowly over the bumps and turns being sure not to bend stems, or ruffle their precious blooms.  

I filled several jars with the flowers and put the biggest collection of them on our night stand directly beside the bed.  After full days of peach pies, ocean swimming and bike riding, each night I would inhale the deeply sweet, intoxicating scent of them.  As a lighthouse beam would swoop gently across our dark bedroom walls and reflect easily across our bedroom window, I would catch a sniff of my favorite flower.  I would reach out to touch their smooth petals.  Occasionally when a petal would fall from the bloom I would take it and gently rub it across my skin, desperately trying to supplant their nectar, their gentle moisture and subtleness into my own sun parched skin.

We recently purchased a small lot in the old western agricultural town of Paonia CO. Peonía being the spanish word for Peony. Paonia was settled in 1880 by Samuel Wade, Paonia is named for the peony roots he carried with him from Ohio. The town has 1500 inhabitants and at least that many peonies bushes, and of course, peaches.  Our lot is close to the downtown area, and currently it is a pretty ugly site, but we have big plans!  One of which is to plant as many peony bushes across the front of our yard as is physically possible.  

Full Woman of Wholeness = Crone.

I was late for my appointment, an appointment I had arranged weeks before. I shuffled in my worn sandals as quickly as I could through the hot crowded narrow alleys towards my hotel, our agreed upon meeting location. I skidded into the front reception of my hotel, only knowing it was the right one from all the other nondescript doors along this particular alleyway because of the large cow that was tied up outside.  The cow was tan and white with a large green rope gently draped across her neck.  Here in India the cow is sacred and treated accordingly. She was my location finder.

As I dashed past the front desk of my hotel, I was sweating and out of breath.  I plowed through the mazes of tunnel-like hallways to the “backyard” of the hotel property.  There he was, a vedic priest, sitting on an old plastic chair in a patch of thick bladed green grass, the kind that is sharp under your feet.  The grass patch was surrounded by a concrete patio.  He was dressed in the traditional white wrappings of his caste and the “sacred thread” of the Brahmins laid diagonally across his body.  It astounded me how in this ancient city filled with ash, dirt, pollution and so many people and cows, the locals kept their clothes so pristine. Despite my tardiness and the midday sun blaring down on us,he seemed cool and patient, a gentle smile spreading across his face as I approached.

There was a white cinder block wall to the left of my priest and over that wall was the thick greenish brown water of the Ganges river.  We were down a few hundred feet from the ceremonial cremation grounds so prevalent here in the holiest of cities, Varanasi. The smoke from the funeral pyres was a constant as it rolled over the walls of the hotel property and surrounded our small gathering.

I sat in the faded red plastic chair that had seen better days - there was a small, slightly tilted card table in front of us. To my left was my little hotel, the troublemaking monkeys still scurrying about on the balcony railings above.  As I sat and gathered myself I recalled replying to his email a month or so ago with the answers to his questions in preparation for this vedic astrological reading. My birthdate, birth time, location etc.  

He laid out my charts he had created onto the wobbly table. In my hurry to get to this meeting I had forgotten to grab a notebook or pen and paper so I couldn’t write down the pertinent information he was to lay out for me.  I did jot a few notes down in the margins of the charts he had prepared.  I remember asking him about the unsettling changes that I was experiencing, my entrance into perimenopause, hot flashes, mood swings, and a lot of anger.  Specifically how I hated the word Crone. 

One date was extremely important, he told me and asked me to mark this day in my calendar. Perhaps seeing my glazed and slightly preoccupied look he said “put it in your phone”  I grabbed my phone from my bag and scrolled into the future.  Six years into the future, March 7 2023. He spoke these words as I typed them into my phone “Full Woman of Wholeness = Crone.”

I absorbed as much of the profoundness as I could that is India. India touched deep into my soul, I cried often there, I felt things deeply there. It is designed that way. Varanasi, a congested, bustling city dating back to the 11th century B.C. the spiritual capital of India stirred up long forgotten dreams. On my last night in India, in Varanasi, my roommate and I got tattoos.  Again we were late for the appointment with the American tattoo artist we had run across, the boyfriend of another friend we had just met. I dozed on my small bed in the cramped room as he tattooed my roommates forearm with the waning and waxing phases of the moon.  It was well past midnight when he began to tattoo the piece of street art i had snapped a picture of earlier that week onto my left outer ankle.  This idea of getting a tattoo (I had never had one before) and its design and placement had come to me a few days earlier in restless mid day nap dream in this same bed.  

This trip was over six years ago now, but I still treasure those memories, even if I don’t think of them often. It sometimes takes a little reminder, like someone inquiring about my tattoo or by wearing a piece of jewelry or shawl I purchased there, and then they flood back.  The sounds, bells, gongs, taxi horns and chanting, and the smells, a mixture of incense and smoke, are what first come to mind when I cast my thoughts back to this sacred city.

This particular memory of my meeting with the vedic priest came back to me in full this past Sunday evening.  In my little mountain home, I was preparing for my week as I generally do on Sunday evenings by reviewing what is in my phone calendar and transferring those events of the week into my bullet journal notebook.  I scrolled through the days of the week on my phone and was stunned when I read the words “Full Woman of Wholeness = Crone” on this upcoming Tuesday.  It took me aback and at first puzzled me.  What did that mean? When did I write that?  Was it a mistake?   It was in a different color bar than what I typically use in my calendar and yet it was distantly familiar. The swatch of thick bladed grass, bending down in my unstable faded red chair to dig my phone from my bag, the seemingly endless scrolling forward into the future six years.  The late afternoon meeting in the holy city of Varanasi and a vedic priest insisting I put this entry into my phone calendar.

It was a Tuesday, a full moon, a day I could have easily skimmed through as I do so many days. I began doing some research and scrambling to find those old chart papers with my scribbles in the margins. My Second Saturn Return. I had heard this term recently from some friends in casual passing, I wasn’t sure what they meant and I didn’t really have any pull to learn, until now of course.  Google searches and Wikipedia revealed:

“The second Saturn Return is meant to reconnect people with their sense of purpose and set them up for meaningful later years,  it's a time when you pick up that metaphorical megaphone and announce who you are  At the second Saturn Return, people often feel like they're finally free to do what they want -- no longer trying to please or prove themselves to others.  The return occurs in Saturn cycles of approximately 28 years. If we are lucky we have three Saturn Returns in our lifetime: the first at ages 27-30 years old, the second at ages 56-59 years old (the exact years depend on the degrees of Saturn in your personal astrology birth chart) and the third at about 85-88 years old.  Saturn is a Roman name of the ancient Greek god Kronos that rules over boundaries, structure and time.   In horoscopic astrology, a Saturn return is an astrological transit that occurs when the planet Saturn returns to the same ecliptic longitude that it occupied at the moment of a person's birth.[1][2] 

This forgotten calendar entry brought back a flood of memories.  Memories from six years prior when I was on that auspicious trip to India. 

Complete any unfinished business. Now is the time.

This seemed even more poignant to me now as I recalled the funeral pyre smoke drifting across my nostrils all day and all night while I was in Varanasi.  

We don’t have as much time as we think.

Dog Walker.

I took a job as a dog walker today, have committed to walking my neighbors two dogs one hour every week day.  Its good pay.  I will get in shape.  I can listen to books on tape.  I have to show up every day - at ANY time during the day - so essentially I’m making my own hours.  Sweet side-gig, and I’m terrified. 

Showing up for myself everyday to exercise,to get a specific task done by a set number of hours, this has not been my strong suit.  I know it is what most folks in the world call “work”or a “job”, and I’ve done my fair share of them throughout my life yet….

Now, after 35 years of child rearing and not really being in the “outside of the home” work force I feel like I really don’t belong anywhere.  I’m in a sort of job purgatory.  Too old to start over, too young to not do something. I’ve submitted multiple applications for positions like Nanny, Writer, Admin Assistant, Personal Assistant…and the reply has been; crickets.  

It has been hard for me to be accountable to myself lately. I was always making sure one of my kids got to an appointment on time, or that forms were filled out and submitted, basically being accountable FOR my children and that WAS myself.  Now they are self sufficient and I find myself a bit lost.  

With benefits like extra cash (the pay is great!) the consistency (yeah routine!), the being out in nature (fresh air!), the exercise (been moaning about losing last 5 pounds!), the getting an hour or so to listen to a podcast or book on tape (another thing I”ve wanted to do for a bit), basically doing anything “good”  for myself on a regular basis hasn’t been a constant in my life.  My inconsistency was my constant. I’ve been longing for years to find my discipline. Yet here I am languishing over this decision about walking dogs on the regular.   

In retrospect I’m grateful that I’ve had such variety in my life.  Raising four kids, it was something.  It was definitely not boring.  And when it was, which was rare, the pause was a relief.  Now boredom has seemed to settle over me, like a lovely old quilt, that smells, “only a little’ of cat piss.  Somehow comforting and familiar and somewhat uncomfortable, but still longing.

 I haven’t been able to keep a routine, especially a morning one, yet I’ve “wanted” to for quite a while.  I have wanted to exercise regularly but somehow the equipment sits and sarcastically collects dust.  My “home practice” is almost extinct, lets say its on the endangered list.  I once taught yoga so I could again “show up for myself” if even through the commitment to others.  

Slowly I’m finding my own rhythm, my own pace, with a lot of stumbles and flat out falls into the pit of self doubt, quickly followed by the depth of despair.  This ugly spiral is fueled by my own self judgment.  Step by wobbly step, I hope to commit more to myself on these self care routines, habits, desires, but until that day seeps into me like a habit, I’m a dog walker.

Read Pema.

It was strongly suggested to me this week. “Read Pema”. 

Read Pema.  Really?  “I’ve read Pema” says my snarky self to my even more snarky self.  I’ve done the yoga retreats and the buddhist classes and the personal growth training and I’ve certainly read Pema.  I decided to Read Pema. 

I am actually “listening” to Pema Chodron this week. The assignment to read Peam, collided with the start of my new job as a neighborhood “dog walker”. The structure of my daily dog walks allows me to “listen to Pema” as I walk, wth the occasional poop pick up.  

I have my two, four footed charges safely by my side, their leashes secured while I have one earbud plugged into “audible” tethered to my trusty orange iphone. I keep my other ear free from buds in order to hear oncoming traffic, gratefully not much, mostly contractors at that early hour.  Their pickup trucks bouncing along the dirt roads, ladders and tools defying gravity.  I would, on occasion, be distracted from the reading. Squirrel, dog off leash, aforementioned poop.  I have yet to figure out how to stop the narrator on audible with a heavily mittened hand and simultaneously pull in one of the dogs that has wandered with his expandable leash a bit too far into the road.  Instead,I half ass it. 

I estimate I’ve missed about 35% of what is read. The other 65% of the time, while the eight paws and two human feet synchronistically hit the ground, Pema’s words come through, sudden and sharp. I'm not even certain of this audio books  title.  Many of Pema Chodrons’s glorious books are filled with the basic concept repeated,  basic goodness. Her proliferance for saying the most amazing things over and over in a very different way each writing is a true talent of expressing the Dharma.  Every time you re-read her books you learn a whole new lesson and deeper understanding.

On my dog walk today, one of those lessons was to find beauty in the boring.  The washing of the dishes analogy.  To be fully present in all we do, including washing the dishes.  Enjoy the warmth of the water and the scent of the soap and the lightness of the bubbles.  Fully present with the seemingly trivial action.  

I don’t wash my dishes by hand, but I do vacuum. It is an addiction and a nemesis. This habitual pattern has been built upon years and years of multiple hairy dogs, at least one equally hairy cat that often slinks into the house with a close to dead backyard find. Not to mention the four children and their plethora of shoes through the years. The floor dirt has not improved now that we live on a dirt road.  As my family can attest, I take my daily vacuuming seriously. 

So after “reading” Pema, today I will practice being more fully present with this daily ritual. I’ll do my best to drop into the sacredness of that present moment,  respecting the sweeping movement, the uplifting action, and be grateful for my long living Miele vacuum.  

Finding the beauty in the mundane.  

-Ryn Robinson

Letting Go.

I am writing this on the last evening of summer.  Fall, and its full on vibe, arrives tomorrow. Fall creeps into our consciousness, our bodies and our lifestyles. Its hard to overlook the bright yellow school buses as they cruise our streets or the matching yellow leaves they scatter in their wake.  A pumpkin on every porch stoop. However, I'm not quite ready to let summer go.

I adore the high country (land above the piedmont and below the timberline). My summer road trips this year included some of my Colorado favorites:

Westcliffe - Pop 568, Alt 7658 - Salida - Pop 5,666, Alt 7068 - Ouray - Pop 1,000, Alt 7792 - Ridgway - Pop 924, Alt 6985 - Telluride - Pop 2,059, Alt 8750

In my exploratory travels we drove through the San de Cristo mountain range just outside of Westcliffe.  Witness to the “blood of Christ” sun reflecting off the tips of the range, forming a crown around the perimeter of the town, a green golden valley glistening below,  the dark amber sunset of the evening setting upon the horizon.

Tonight I sit with a more familiar mountain before me. I try to decipher this mountain now in its contrasting form. I am intimately familiar with this mountain. I've been on it hundreds of times.  But today, in this changing season, it’s almost unrecognizable to me. Almost foreign now with its brown rocky edges and mottled clusters of cliffs and evergreens scattered upon it instead of my typical experience of it in its soft white blanket.

My “local” friend helps me find the recognizable landmarks on the brown ridge above tree line. He gently points out to me the bowls that I’ve skied, showing me where my favorite lifts and runs are on this unfamiliar landscape of my off season perspective. As I recognize more and more of the terrain, snow filled memories flood my mind. Skiing this mountain in a "snow globe", crystalline moisture suspended in the air. Sunlight glistened upon the edge of each minuscule perfectly shaped flake, creating a kaleidoscope of beauty to ski through. Carving out fresh tracks, often with very few others - strangers - but not - we let out a collective woop, and as a small community, we take the leap and hop down into the fresh pillowy bliss of the powder.

I draw my gaze away from the majestic view of the mountaintop towards its muladhara - the base,  the root of the mountains as it holds court before us. It feels so strong and humbling.  As my eyes focus closer in, I see the leaves are just beginning their metamorphosis, slowly releasing their chlorophyll until the absolute synchronized moment when they make the decision, and release, fully release. They flutter towards the earth, such a long, casual affair that lasts a few seconds. No panic. No hurry. Just a natural letting go.

I am a summer “holder-on-er”; it's my "favorite" season. This summer, didn’t disappoint and blessed us with its realm of glorious sun, showers  and rainbows.  I miss them already.

It is happening, the air is growing crisper the apples, now reigning the market, usurping the glorious peaches of palisades.  Viewing the golden aspens shivering against the pungently clear blue sky is classic Colorado fall.  I, like the leaves, will take my time following my own inner knowledge and of course the wisdom of nature, waiting for just the right moment to let go.

Westcliffe

The immensity of the Sky

as if we were tiny Lego people in a Lego village

the sky so Vast it Swallowed us whole

a Soft blanket laid Lightly upon my soul

Population: 559 (2020)

Elevation: 7,867′

And She’s Off…

I gave her a final hug in the security check line, the last possible place I could physically touch her without an altercation with the TSA agent that was already giving me the side eye. As she crept forward in line, I ran alongside the flimsy barrier to try and catch a few final glimpses of her. I scanned the individual queues and spotted her with the security agent she was showing her documents to. I scooted, like a crazed stalker, slinking, half run/walking, further down the large hall towards a strategically placed large glass window. This window is in the direct line of sight of the escalator that carries passengers leaving the security area towards the awaiting trains that will take them to their terminals, gates, and eventual planes.

In my frenzied moments of watching her from afar in the airport security line I struggled with my anxiety; “‘where is she? I can’t see her, why is she taking so long, she should have picked the shorter line, i hope she remembered to take her laptop out” my monkey mind raced. Suddenly she came into my view, unruffled, beautiful, confident and poised, stepping gracefully onto that escalator.

In retrospect I saw her process through that security check as a symbolic place of her metamorphosis. On this day, 21 years from the day of her birth, 21 years of living at our semi neurotic pace, of moving primarily as we do and as we directed her to, she has found her own cadence, sorting how she wants to move, which line she wants to choose, how quickly she wants to unlace and lace her shoes. She was hitting her own stride.

It reminded me of those times when we step off of a moving walkway, we have been taken along for the ride at the mechanical pace that was set for us. The walkway eventually ends, we actually see solid ground drawing closer, and as we step off we are left to find our own rhythm of propulsion forward. There is a little awkward step, a stumble sometimes, and then the security of finding our feet beneath us, solid, moving us forward.

That delightfully elegant young woman that appeared on the escalator heading towards her train was my baby, now heading off on her own into the world. She was oblivious to my deranged existence spying on her through that window as she began her decent to the platform. The woman standing behind her saw me right away, smiling to me compassionately. My panic rising and my heart sinking I thought to myself, she wasn’t going to look up, she wasn’t going to notice me. Then finally, at the last minute before she was to be completely out of sight, she glanced up, spotted me and gave me a tender wave.

And she was off.

I turned sharply, eyes stinging, and headed into the dark depths of the cold parking garage.

In the Lap of the Buddha

While I struggled to get out of bed this morning I read an article by Jack Kornfeld about Bodhisatvas during the time of this pandemic. I awoke with crippling worries of my elderly father or mother contracting this virus and perhaps dying now, of all times, and of all things to end a long life with. My fears of my adult sons out in the world making their way through these dangerous waters of jobs, relationships and loneliness. Compounded with the overall suppressive weight of sadness and anxiety pronounced currently in our world on every screen I look to. Per the Jack Kornfeld Bodhisattva article we are to take those fears, worries and anxieties and lay them in the lap of the Buddha. “Allow them to be carried by great winds across the sky” as the Ojibwa elders state. Just the simple act of reading these words softened my shoulders and opened my chest. However, then, as a Bodhisattva, you are to turn back to the world, towards sickness, deaths and fears and absorb them, take them in, allow them to penetrate you from all angles. Accept them from others in an attempt to offer relief and to radiate back generosity, clarity, steadiness and love.

This is the time for love, for beaming love to others — across the divide of social distancing and sheltering in place. To our trash truck driver with his quick smile as he carries away our refuse. To the brown bears that have awakened and are prowling our mountain. Now is the time for my fears for my parents and children to soften and open my heart to those same fears in others. My friends jobs, my neighbors loneliness, strangers lives and losses. Recognize this in them, behind their masks, beyond their rubber gloves, isolation, dismay and confusion. At this moment, this exact moment, keep my heart, our hearts, open with compassion.

I feel caught in non-doing. I want to do something; I don’t have a working sewing machine (plus hate sewing) so not making masks. I am supporting and buying from small businesses only, I am buying gift cards of local massage therapists, barbers, and restaurants. I have cut my hours so my teammates that have lost so much income can gain some extra. I am trying to keep my in-household family safe and well-fed, house cleaned and sheets fresh. I’ve made a few hollow financial donations. But what I can do, my “best and most noble aspiration” is to shine my light. This morning I had to dig around through my anxiety in the knotted sheets of my bed to find that light — but it lit as soon as I threw back the covers and placed my feet upon the soft wooden floor beneath me, like the flip of a switch. As the belly of the mother that the Buddha shone through — a lamp in the darkness — shining the light of love to all in my presence, across the distances and in my immediate periphery.

We were born with consciousness, it is our humanness. It is in our genetics to respond with love, to infants it is a gut reaction To elders it is a tenderness with each birthday I cross. Tears are expressions of love, as is laughter, we can’t help but love. Open our compassionate hearts, ingest the pain and suffering of our neighbors and respond with love, then in turn, placing all in the lap of the Buddha.

*a Free Write in response to Allison Stones: “The Sun Above”

She’s Leaving Home

Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins….

Her test flights are going well.  Boyfriend, job, school, harp lessons, art projects.  I used to push her to be more “out in the world” as she is naturally inclined to be “inside her world” but now she has hit a steady stride of equanimity - the world has gained a beautiful gem.

Oh world, please be kind to her.

She was born at a time when life as we knew it changed forever. That mid September morning act of terrorism eventually led her oldest brother off to a war.  She was eleven days old when two planes struck the World Trade Centers.  We huddled in the security of our family bed together as we watched the horrors unfold. The world at her feet, now permanently altered.  

I remember having a little crib chat with her on that day - asking her to stay with us, to be strong. We need her softness, her kindness, her gentleness. I worried about the strain on her tender soul. I muttered into her sleeping baby ear “I do hope you will stay” but oddly I also gave her the option to go.

As our fourth child, I was so nervous about having  “pushed our luck”. How was it possible that we were blessed with four healthy children? The more kids we had the more the chances that something bad could happen,  I irrationally rationed. I used to fear walking down our steep steps with her in my arms, I could trip.  I would crawl up on her crib so as not to wake her to be sure i could see the rhythmic gentle rise and lower of the hand crocheted blanket covering her, soothing my unease.

Silently closing her bedroom door

Now a senior in high school, she still lives with us, or at least has her bedroom here.  Her bed is empty when I peak in before I go to bed.  Her bed is empty when I pass by with the vacuum in the morning.  Her curfew is later than my own bedtime, her morning routine is earlier than my waking.   I know there will be a day soon when she won’t be there for me to reach out and hug, stroke her creamy skin and smooth or long hair, it tears at my heart, the knowing of the longing to come that is now wrapped in the longing of what is.

A subtle golden stud occasionally sparkles from her right nostril when the light catches it.  Her first true rebellion, a nose piercing, looks perfect on her.  Her long blonde hair now hennaed a rich auburn seems to be her natural coloring.  She trusts herself, her instincts - she is knowing more and more who she is.  She is expressing herself and it is beautiful.

Between our tears and our heartbreak we witness her soaring. I steal glimpses of her. Her little red car, solid in holding her safely down the mountain roads away from the house into the town. Away from home.

Standing alone at the top of the stairs

She breaks down and cries to her husband "Daddy our baby's gone

She models the dresses given to her as gifts. Her tall thin frame carries them with elegance. 

We stare at her in amazement, how did she become this stunning young woman so suddenly?  When did her braces come off?  She has slipped into a young woman with ease, timelessly.

The family legend is that she saved my dad's life.  Gave him life.  A reason for life.

Heavily pregnant with her in Ireland, I take the call. I huddle into the phone receiver under the ancient stairs of the BnB.  My mother describes the procedure they were wheeling my father's hospital bed into. I smelled the ham being grilled for the guests in the kitchen next to the stairs.   My father on the end of the line, across the sea, the nurses stretching the cord of the phone to reach his ear as he lay on the bed.  I imagine the sterile white, blue/green of the room.  I hear the beeping of the machines, the struggle of his breath.  My last chance to speak with him before the doctors openly explore his heart.  I tell him through gulps of words caught in my dry throat, about  the tiny Irish sweater I saw in a shop window last night. He replied “buy the sweater, I can’t wait to see my new grandchild in it”.  I bought the sweater as soon as the shop opened that morning.  The news finally came, we could expect about five more years with my dad.  That was 18 years ago.  Cardiologists were amazed at his recovery and longevity.  What was it that over ruled their sentencing?  

That little sweater carefully placed with her other baby hood treasures in a cedar chest.  A testament to the power of her spirit and her grandfather's love. He looks forward to her graduation this spring.

Our job is nearly done, 32 years of growing people.  Four children nearly all flown.  Reacquainting ourselves, meals for two.  No need to really set the table any longer.  Even the dinners left in the oven for her aren't eaten.  “I grabbed a bite earlier”.

Sometimes before I go to bed I go into her room and turn on her fairy lights.  Maybe fluff her bed pillows and turn on her space heater.  These little things are all I can do for her.  These tiny expressions of my love.

Logically of course she is leaving.  We are very proud. She's made fantastic grades.  She’s made great choices.  She’s handled herself and situations with grace.  We pat ourselves on our backs for a job well done while inside we ache.

Waiting to keep the appointment she made

Meeting a man from the motor trade

As the years slip by, I long for the mother to child touch. I did not realize it would end so quickly. I miss feeling her thinness, her bird-like body, her girl scent, her thin legs.  My children are held by lovers now. My maternal touch has been replaced by her 6’ tall dark handsome first love.  

Freddie feels my pain.  The ginger has been her best friend and companion his entire life.  As a kitten she would dress him up.  He would slink out of her room with beaded necklaces dragging behind him.  As a cat does he would give us the look of “This is so degrading '' mixed with his utter devotion and love for her.  Every morning she slipped him a small saucer of milk.  Now in her absence we are left to continue this ritual to his loud meows until it is done.  He sleeps on her bed most of his days now.  He sits by the door and stares at it for hours, waiting, patient.  Sometimes I'll sit with him, Fred and I sharing her loss.  Missing our girl.  The tabby is older now, slower, a bit fatter, but his mistress is still his mistress.  “Where is she?” He questions us daily.  “When is she coming home?” 

Quietly turning the backdoor key

Stepping outside she is free

Our already grown and flown kids come by for meals, birthdays, holidays.  A pile of monster sized mens shoes inside the door, respectfully removed, as they were taught for all those years.  In the kitchen their man sized bodies fill the space.  Picking at foods, rummaging through the pantry.  Peeking into the fridge for the craft beers.  Setting the table for six, is one of my greatest joys.  

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away

When all four are together they are a force, they are a pod, a clan, links in an invisible unbreakable chain.  They are all very different and they never forget they are the same, they are siblings, bound.  They share the burden of care for each other.  Their wings are strong, their innate spirits lifting them, individually and collectively.  We await their occasional return.

Her room is so empty now. 

Bye bye.
*Beatles: She’s Leaving Home written by Paul McCarthy